


Librarian's Favorite

by lamp_of_hetalia



Category: Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Awkwardness, Fluff, M/M, Romance, old english
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamp_of_hetalia/pseuds/lamp_of_hetalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*Also posted on FanFiction.net<br/>Human/Library AU Human names used. FrUk. UkFr. Fluff. Arthur is a librarian at his college and Francis is a frequent visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Librarian's Favorite

“Thank you.” Golden hair held up in a tight blue ribbon bobbed as the man gratefully took the stack of books from the counter. Arthur had come to some conclusions about him. He was a bit loud, but when he was engrossed in a book, he was silent, focused. Arthur liked him best when he was like that; quietly reclined in the plush chair in the back left corner of the ‘mystery’ section. His library card showed visible signs of wear, as it should. The Frenchman was there nearly every day. He never came at the same time and sometimes, Arthur assumed (as his shift only covered the time between 3pm and 9pm), not at all. Not that he had taken any particular interest in the man, no, not in the slightest. Arthur had just happened to notice that his name was Francis Bonnefoy as it flashed on the check-out screen one night and he had ‘accidently’ gone through his check-out history. That, in the end, was what piqued Arthur’s interest. You see, most of the people that took advantage of Kindred University’s library checked out materials for research (for their essays and such) and would only do so occasionally. Others, who came in for leisure reading tended to stick to one (or at least a select few) genre. But no, Francis Bonnefoy was neither of these people. He checked out everything. And when Arthur says everything, he means everything: books ranging from Shakespeare’s “Much Ado about Nothing” to Fredrick Nietzsche’s “Genealogy of Morals,” Stephan King’s “Cell,” a complete collection of poems by Emily Dickenson, a book on cell biology, Charles Dickens “Moby Dick,” a few books by John Green, and so many more. Among his books tonight were “The Night Circus” and, surprisingly, the first book of the Harry Potter series. Arthur all but swallowed his tongue when he saw the sheepish grin cross the blonde’s face as he placed it on the counter. If there had not been a line forming behind the man, Arthur would have asked about it.

“A light pick compared to what you’ve checked out lately,” is how he would have begun. The Frenchman would likely say something preposterous or offensive and Arthur would ask him if he was just starting the series or if he were re-reading it. Either way he answered, Arthur wouldn’t have minded. That was, if there had not been a line forming behind him, but there was, so Arthur pushed the rogue thought to the back of his mind and handed the man his books, not saying a word. There was always another time, another place, another circumstance.

He sat there, unaware of the world around him, defenseless, in a sense. Arthur could set a fire next to Francis, and the man would not have noticed. That was both a gift and a curse, Arthur knew, something to be envied and something to be feared. This man, who he had said only about ten words to, who had only said ten words to his as well, had managed to fully capture Arthur’s attention. Really, there was no way he was as interesting as his mind was making him out to be. The air of perfection he held had to be flawed in some way, but, when Arthur would look, when he would fawn over every detail, he could not seem to find the defection. The way his hair fell just above his shoulders, brushing lightly against his slightly exposed ashen skin was perfect. His so-very-noticeable French accent that seemed to get thicker everyday was perfect. The sharpness and audacity of his clothing was perfect. When he sat, he looked undeniably dainty, yet it suited him and in that, it too was perfect. But of everything, the most perfect thing about the man was the way his eyes, those cerulean oceans that made one’s throat go dry in seconds, fluttered across the page of a book, driving toward the next paragraph underneath thin blonde lashes. It was as annoying as it was intriguing, though Arthur did find himself running past the ‘mystery’ section more often now a days, studying the blonde when his head was in a book and pointedly avoiding his gaze (though he still watched out of the corner of his eye) when it wasn’t.

It had been two weeks since Francis had picked up the first Harry Potter book. The Frenchman had finished off the series in about a week, much to Arthur’s chagrin. He had just managed to find the perfect way to start a conversation, albeit was an insult, but still. His plan was now effectively ruined and it was all the Frenchman’s fault.

“Ahum…monsieur? Are you awake?” Today’s variation of ribbon was a lapis lazuli shade that wrapped around Francis’ hair in a relaxed manner. A few strands strayed outside of the slack band, framing his face in a disgustingly seamless way. How this man was so presentable when it looked as if he had just rolled out of bed was a mystery to Arthur.

“Yes, quite. Your books?” He cleared his throat, banishing any stray thoughts to focus on the task at hand.

“Oui, of course.” Francis held out a single book.

“Really, that French is annoying; you need to—Only one today?” Arthur stopped for a second and inspected the man before him. Yes, it was Francis, and yes, he did only have one book.

“Yes, have you been keeping track?” A smirk made its way across Francis’ face, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit.

“You wish, ya bloody arse.” The book was scanned and handed back in record time; a scowl radiating a hint of embarrassment with a multitude of irritation flashed across the gentleman’s face.

“Nothing I would want more, mon cher.” He took the books, throwing a well-timed wink at the Englishman and turned on his heel, striding off toward the mystery section.

“Idiot.” Arthur sat back down, glaring at the chair in which Francis was now seated.

It had been a few hours. Arthur had replaced all of the books left out in the front of the library, and now it was time to go check the back room, or, more importantly, the _mystery section_. Scowl still firmly in place, he walked more slowly toward the area than he would usually, the conversation from before still playing out in his mind. He really could not place what had made him ask about, what had made him _notice,_ the difference in the amount of books. Most of the patrons had cleared out by now, as the library was only to remain open for twenty more minutes. But, if his observations were correct, he had not seen Francis leave, though he was certainly not watching to see if he had. Sure enough, as Arthur rounded the corner, long crossed legs adorned in fitted black slacks, followed by a dark maroon sweater and light blonde hair came into view. Arthur did not hesitate to approach the other, scooping up the books that were strewn across the table a few feet in front of him and gliding over to put them back where they belonged. Circling back, he scanned the rest of the room and, finding nothing out of place, his eyes came to rest on the man sitting in front of him. He was as he was typically: perched upon the chair in the daintiest of ways, turning page after page. Only when he got closer did he see the oddity. Finally, an oddity. A blemish in the seemingly perfect man, if one could really call it that. Francis’ porcelain skin was tinted pink and his eyes were rimmed with scarlet, tears collecting at their edges. Unwarranted worry plagued Arthur, as if the sight of the distraught Frenchman actually upset him.

“Francis?” It was more of a question and more of a gasp than anything else. He didn’t know what possessed him to ask, to express any type of odd concern for a near stranger, but he stayed, waited for an answer that he partially hoped would never come. Then everything could go back to how it was before, Francis being the perfect and beautiful nymph he was, and Arthur admiring that beauty from afar.

“Oh, is it almost closing time? I must have lost track of the time after all.” Francis placed a small white lace bookmark in the pages and closed it gently. He stood with the fluidity of a cat, turning toward the exit.

“Are you alright?” The words seemed to roll out by themselves, as if fate or a goddamn spell had taken hold and refused to let this situation go unresolved. Francis slowly sat back in the chair, looking up at Arthur.

“I suppose you could say I was alright, because _I_ am not in any pain regarding myself. However, I am distressed in a sense.” A soft smile presented itself as he brushed a bit of wandering blond behind his ear.

“And what sense would that be?” Arthur sat in the chair across from him, growing tired of having to look down upon the man.

“That book is insufferably depressing. Have you read it?” Francis answered, sinking back. The Englishman’s eyes darted to the book’s title, _Les Misérables_. Of course, it would be French, wouldn’t it?

“No, I’m not entirely fond of…French things.” His answer came out a bit more harsh than he had intended and Francis raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

“I see, not _fond of French things._ Interesting.” Francis looked down at his lap and Arthur could have sworn he was giggling under his breath. “Either way, it’s still worth the read, if one is indeed interested in historical fiction. Though you tend to—” He stopped and glanced up.

“I tend to what, frog?” Defensive, as always.

“Lean toward the fantasy genre.” He finished.

“I do not!”

“You do. In fact, in all the times I’ve seen you reading behind that counter, I’ve not seen anything but fantasy novels.”

“That is a lie. I read a book on genetics yesterday.”

“Was it for class?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t count then.”

“Well, you, sir, have the most irregular pattern of reading that I have ever seen in the history of my working here!” It came out as an angry whisper, and it packed much less of a punch that way.

“So you _were_ keeping track of what I was reading, then.” A smirk more prominent than the one from their previous conversation surfaced.

“Of course not, I just happened to notice.” All of the confidence that Arthur had come into the conversation with drained in an instant. A slight tinge of pink spread across his face, offering a physical embodiment of the embarrassment he was now feeling.

“I see you noticed that I read a variety of books but you failed to see a pattern in them,” He chuckled, “I hid it well enough for you not to spot. I’m a bit disappointed. I was sure you’d pick up on it eventually.”

“Of course I picked up on it, you bloody idiot. I just didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of knowing that I had!” He was not going down without a fight, though he had no idea what the other was talking about.

“Oh, really? What was it then, mon cher?”

“You read…in a certain pattern of genres.”

“No.”

“Your third book was always a book on philosophy.”

“No.”

“The amount of books you checked out went even to odd every other time.”

“No? Do you give up?”

“No.”

“You’re not going to get it; you’re going about it the wrong way.”

“Then please inform me of what way I should approach this matter.”

“It involves you.”

“The titles you checked out formed a sentence in which you mocked me.”

“I’m beginning to think that you may be more insufferable than this book.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“Did you not notice, my dear Arthur, that a week after you finished a book, I would happen to show up with the same book? I was hoping you’d ask about one of them, you daft fool.”

“Only a fool would come up with such a convoluted plan! What form of disdain would this be considered? Was it to mock my so-called ignorance or my knack for being inattentive?” Arthur was growing redder by the minute, more of anger than embarrassment now.

“Surely you jest. Though I do delight in teasing you, that was not my intention.” Francis looked amused now, which only infuriated Arthur further.

“What other purpose could one have for such a pointless effort?” The Englishman scoffed.

“To show that I was watching you just as much as you were me.” He inched forward, looking directly into those jade eyes. Truly, he had been watching Arthur.

_A week after the new semester started, Francis found his way into the library, looking for research materials for his upcoming class paper, and he saw Arthur. Arthur, who was contentedly reading a fantasy novel behind the check-out desk, blatantly ignoring the growing pile of returned books on the counter. He had laughed at first, internally of course, it was a library. What, with the man’s choppy dirty-blonde mop of a head of hair, those dreadful unkempt eyebrows, and that lack of fashion sense, how could he be anything more than a joke? Francis had gone on his way and found the book he was looking for (an old book on eastern philosophy for his world philosophy lecture) and headed back to the check-out desk. Caterpillar, as he had so-dubbed Arthur, was still reading and ignoring his job. He set the book down when Francis approached and silently ran Francis’ book through the system. Francis had caught sight of his nametag, and noticed his name was Arthur. Plain and befitting to such a man, he had thought. Not another thought on the man from then on, until a month later._

_It was a cold mid-November evening on campus, and Francis was in need of a specific title. He couldn’t seem to find it on the self, which irritated him to no end. Begrudgingly, he approached the check-out counter, seeing the same annoying, badly-dressed man as before._

“ _Monsieur, could you tell me where a book might be?” Francis was polite, as one should be to a stranger._

“ _Have you tried the computer system catalog?” His nose didn’t even appear above the spine of his book. Uninterested, uninteresting, and plain, Francis had decided._

“ _Oui, it seems to be hiding, as the system says it should be here, it is decidedly not.” The Frenchman’s brows came together in aggravation at the attempt to brush him off._

“ _What book is it?” He set down his book and stood. It wasn’t that bad today, ‘Caterpillar' had on a pair of black slacks and a white collared shirt and a deep red tie. Much better than the brown vest over a black shirt that he had had on the other day. He would be an easy catch if Francis really tried. But then again, no one had really given him much of a fight before. If he began to pursue someone, they typically accepted and the few that had denied were easily swayed over a bit of time. This could be a nice challenge._

“ _The Analects.” He smiled, winking at the other. If Arthur noticed, he had ignored it._

“ _Confucius? Heavy reading for an impudent-looking man like yourself.” Arthur rounded the corner of the counter and headed off toward the middle row of the front bookshelves. Francis followed him._

“ _I’m imprudent? Says the man who disregards his work to read fantasy novels.” The Frenchman remarked, eyeing him as they walked. He didn’t have that awful of a figure, though he was a scrawny little thing._

“ _If that’s imprudence, I would not want to be wise.” He leaned down and picked a book off of the bottom shelf._

“ _Shouldn’t the Analects be near the top?”_

“ _Do you even know how to read?” Arthur handed him the book and turned to go back to the check-in desk. That was how it started._

_From that day on, from that_ moment  _on, Arthur became more interesting. It was the absolute disdain for Francis, when Francis had done nothing to warrant it, that intrigued him. He had taken to stopping by the library everyday now. Be it rain or snow, sleet or sun, he'd be there studying, reading, and_ watching _. He'd found the perfect spot to sit in order to read peacefully and watch Arthur. While Francis' curiosity was sated by glances at first, lately, he had taken to peering over the cover of the book he was reading and just staring at him. Really, Francis thought he had to have gone crazy. There was nothing about this man that was special, he told himself. But he kept watching him, fascinated as a crocodile silently observing a monkey that had precariously placed itself on the branch that was just out of the crocodile's reach. Whether Arthur was staying out of his reach to spite him, or if he was doing it unintentionally, it was annoying Francis._

_He had tried to start so many conversations with the man that ended up going absolutely nowhere. Francis had asked him to help him find books, how his day was going, how the weather was outside, if he was a student, what book he was reading, and all of them ended the same way: one word answers. The only thing he could muster out of him, and not by asking, but by_ observing _, was that he liked fantasy novels. Seeing as he had no other avenue to pursue, he went about finding a way to get Arthur to talk to him with said novels. First he asked him about what he was reading, but he seemed not to hear him. When that failed to work, he started checking out the books he saw Arthur reading (along with a variety of other titles, as he didn't want to be too conspicuous). That was when he noticed Arthur looking at him. As it was with him, it started out with glances. Francis would catch him looking at him and Arthur would look away, seemingly angered. He assumed Arthur had caught on, and when he went to check out the first of the 'Harry Potter' novels, Francis was sure he would get Arthur to talk to him. When he had walked up to the counter and handed Arthur the book, and Arthur paused, as if he were going to ask him something, but then he continued on with his work, Francis was disappointed._

_Two weeks had gone by since he had checked out the first 'Harry Potter' book, and he had finished off the rest of the series. It was getting to the point where he was about to give up, call it quits, and just forget about trying to get that 'less than special' (as Francis kept reminding himself, but not really believing) Englishman to talk to him. He walked up to the counter, as he did everyday, only to find Arthur staring off toward the back of the building._

“ _Ahum…monsieur? Are you awake?” Francis vaguely wondered where he was looking._

“ _Yes, quite. Your books?” Clearing his throat, Arthur focused himself on the Frenchman._

“ _Oui, of course.” He held out the library's only copy of Les Misérables._

“ _Really, that French is annoying; you need to—Only one today?” Arthur stopped short, eyes lingering on the man in front of him. Francis could hardly contain himself; he had gotten Arthur to say more than a word to him. He couldn't figure out why it had taken this long to work, and he wasn't about to screw this chance up._

“ _Yes, have you been keeping track?” The Frenchman smiled a warm smile, hopefully inviting more conversation._

“ _You wish, ya bloody arse.” The book was scanned and handed back in record time, a grimace that put the most horrifying demon to shame made it's way across his face. _

“ _Nothing I would want more, mon cher.” It was better than nothing. He'd gotten a couple of sentences out of him, at least. With renewed vigor, Francis winked at the other, turned on his heel, and strode off toward his spot in the mystery section._

_He hadn't expected to get so into the book and start crying. He really hadn't expected Arthur to ask him if he was alright._

“I was not watching you.” Arthur protested, moving forward as well.

“I don't believe you.” All Francis had to do was close the distance of about one inch and they would be touching. His skin was electricity itself as he leaned in and—

“Arthur, we're closing up, have you—Oh, uhm. You locked the back doors, right?” A woman, who Francis assumed was one of Arthur's co-workers interrupted, blushing terribly. Much to Francis' disappointment, Arthur cleared his throat and stood up. Francis followed him, grabbing his book and standing behind him.

“Yes, I did. I'll—uh—I'll be there in a moment, Mary.” Arthur watched her walk toward the front of the building. Nothing could express how exasperated he was; he'd been so close, _they'd_ been so close.

“I guess I'll be going then.” Francis smiled, but he didn't move. They stood there, not looking directly, both too stubborn to either leave or continue the conversation. Arthur's heart was pounding and he was so tempted, so ready, to just lean over and kiss the man he'd been watching for so long. This interesting man who infuriated him so much; he just wanted to close that gap, break that barrier, and get it over with. Arthur was never one for patience, and he was going to have to make the first move. He leaned in and hoped for the best.

Francis' lips were as soft as he's imagined. It was awkward, Arthur pressing his lips to Francis' from about a foot away and when he pulled away, he blushed and avoided the Frenchman's eyes, a scowl quickly finding it's way to his mouth. Cerulean eyes softened; a wider smile replacing the already stunned one on his face.

“You—you—idiot.” Arthur couldn't find anything else to say at the moment, he was out of breath and he had no reason to be. He felt hands on his hips and and lips on his. This one was better, they were closer and it was less awkward. Francis smelled like some god-awful French perfume and Arthur wouldn't have had it any other way. When they parted once more, their foreheads stayed together. Francis closed his eyes and laughed; he'd never thought this would happen.

“Do you want to go get some coffee?” He usually skipped this part. The part where he got to know the person.

“Tea would be nice.”

“Tea it is then.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This could be continued, I guess. Tell me if you like it!


End file.
